On a day highlighted by one super-cool Godson’s loss of yet another bottom tooth (Way to go, Petey!), Dad and I celebrated the Tooth Fairy’s pending visit with an hour and a half at the gym and 1,000 made foul shots.
Mr. Seth Tatman Cummings (a.k.a. Dad), he of 1,000 points of his own while manning the hardwood at Bates College in the early- to mid-1960s, was feeling about as lousy as he’s felt, physically, but he insisted he was good enough to go anyway … and stayed upright by taking a bunch of breaks. The way that usually works is that he’ll step off the court at some multiple of 100, get a drink of water, and sit on the gymnasium stage until my first miss after the next 10 made. In other words, he gets at least 10 shots off, and if I’m shooting particularly well he stands to sit for a bunch more.
That said … I’d call tonight an average shooting night generally, but for whatever reason I got into kind of a groove when he sat at 900. At 925, I hadn’t missed, so he sat. At 950, I hadn’t missed, so he sat. At 975, I hadn’t missed, so he sat. At 996, I still hadn’t missed, so he sat.
Just four more, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaavey!
And that, my friends, is when I … guh! … choked.
So here’s to Petey, here’s to ninety-something in a row, here’s to 128,307 down and 871,693 to go to 1 million made foul shots.
And here’s to our soldiers and Veterans, with our deepest admiration.